


Among the Lost People

by Whatwefightfor



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Also Robin is there, Amnesia, Angst, Character Study, Falling In Love, Found Family, Friendship, Marriage, Multi, Pining, Tharja is confused by her morbid tendencies, The Shepherds are there too, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-07-05 08:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15859797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whatwefightfor/pseuds/Whatwefightfor
Summary: Tharja hears blood roaring in her ears, feels power thrumming in her marrow. Her heart quickens, the rush from mastering a spell or delivering well-deserved vengeance multiplied to infinity. The Shepherds are offering her a future, the fools, and the Exalt trusts her.She lets Robin’s aura wash over her again, gripping her with fear and elation. This – this might finally be the death she’s been waiting for.





	1. Prologue I - To Love and To Kill

            When Tharja is nine years old, she sees a woman die.

            Another of her mother’s patients, limp and cold on the midwife’s table. The child, stillborn, will be buried with her. Her head lolls back onto the pillow, mud-brown hair plastered to her face – once twisted in pain, now peaceful, hiding some divine wisdom.

            Someone drags Tharja out of the room while she stares, imagining what it must feel like to be held like that child. To be cradled so lovingly, so desperately, by a mother who is still warm. Someone mutters in her ear that it’s not a proper sight for a little girl, as Tharja imagines what it feels like to be _dead._

            Curiosity does not kill her – it beats her, until she falls to the kitchen floor, wiping blood from her nose, imagining the dull, vacant look in her own eyes. Imagining how she must look dead. But her bruises scream, reminding her with malice that she yet lives, a malice she sees reflected in her mother’s eyes. Her father, motionless in the corner and reeking of alcohol, looks dead. Tharja envies him.

-

            Tharja is thirteen when her wounds stitch themselves back together.

            She does not know how much she takes, or from whom, but her father dies the next night. Her mother comes at her, clawing, shrieking, whipping the neighbors into a frenzy. Tharja learns that she is a _demon,_ one of Grima’s chosen, and will only bring pain and suffering unless they are rid of her forever.

            Tharja welcomes it. She welcomes their anger, their fear, their stones. She will finally know what it feels like to be dead.

            But she awakens just before dawn, dried blood on her forehead, and her body will not let her die.

            She looks up at the stars and they promise nothing.

            Like a ghost, she steals back into her house and scrapes the pantry bare, bundles her clothes and leaves.

-

            Tharja is fourteen when she learns the meaning of power. The value of control.

            It is an old man who discovers her, shivering in the desert cold, the sand around her smoldering at her will, snuffing out in feeble protestation. He kneels, passes his hand over it, and the ground beneath her warms, trickling throughout her body until the shivering stops.

            Diallo teaches her hexes to help and harm, fostering her power with gruff, reluctant care. He never touches her or raises his voice. Tharja wonders if this is death, if this is love. She never finds the courage to decide. After three years, Diallo’s health fails him, and he has only the strength to press his final tome into her hands before he is gone.

            Tharja does not weep as she departs. Her body will not let her.

-

            Tharja is eighteen when she kills a man.

            Their paths cross on her way to Plegia Castle. He is a merchant, a husband and father, purse fat with coins. His smile is kind, but the mischief in his eyes reminds her of Diallo. Tharja’s guard drops, perhaps for the first time in years.

            That night, she wakes to the sound of him rifling through her bags. His hands close around her tome, and as she starts awake, he lunges for her throat with a curved knife.

            Tharja does not think. She flings out her hand and shears the air, buckling the merchant – thief – practiced murderer – to the ground in a heap of flesh and pulverized bones.

            His purse becomes her purse. With it, she bribes her way past the guards at Plegia Castle and into an audience with King Gangrel himself. She demonstrates her skills, confirms (with an odd twist in her gut) that her powers can kill. The king’s archmage, Aversa, is well pleased. Tharja is welcomed into the fold.

            She does not like Aversa. Her eyes look like her mother’s.

-

            Tharja is twenty when she meets the vaunted Prince of Ylisse.

            He looks the part. Tall, handsome, cutting an inspiring figure in his battle garb. His eyes and face shine with the captivating idealism that must have people lining up to die for him.

            “You there, Plegian. You seem reluctant to fight.”

A weaker woman would fall at his feet. A viler woman would entertain corrupting him.

Tharja sneers at him. “Why should I fight and die for a cause I don’t believe in?”

            Three years in Plegia’s army is long enough; she’s ever stayed in one place any longer. As she prepares to exit stage left, something catches her eye – or, rather, some _one._

Just behind the prince: shadowing him protectively, perhaps a little _too_ closely, is a young man of about the same age. His hair is prematurely grey, betraying whatever trauma can be etched beneath his unassuming face. He wears the robes of a Ylissean mage.

            “Perhaps you’d like to rebel,” the prince presses. “And fight with us?”

            The air _crackles_ around this mage with power, with _death._ It’s dark and cold, and it chills her to the bone like those desert nights, only she knows not even Diallo’s tricks could warm her. The sheer weight of his killing intent is staggering, and yet here he is in the company of Shepherds, smiling and offering her comrades asylum.

            “I have a bit of a rebellious streak,” she begins, finding she can’t avoid the stranger’s gaze. “A…dark side. Besides, you’d have to be a fool to accept me. What if this is just a ploy to get a dagger in your back?”

            His smile is not false like the merchant’s. It’s serene – oblivious. He uses benign, elemental magic. His eyes are kind, but piercing, returning her pondering stare. Tharja is pinned by his evaluation. She realizes (too little, too late) that she has met her match.

            Robin winks, nudges the prince on the arm.

            The prince gives him a searching look, and turns to Tharja, serious, determined. “My sister. I think she would trust you.”

            Tharja hears blood roaring in her ears, feels power thrumming in her marrow. Her heart quickens, the rush from mastering a spell or delivering well-deserved vengeance multiplied to infinity. The Shepherds are offering her a future, the fools, and the Exalt _trusts_ her.

            She lets Robin’s aura wash over her again, gripping her with fear and elation. This – _this_ might finally be the death she’s been waiting for.

            Tharja is twenty when she falls in love.


	2. Prologue II - If Thou Dost Not Retain

            Robin does not remember being nine, or thirteen, or fourteen, or eighteen.

            Or, rather, he does, but there are…gaps.

            He remembers no names, no faces. Only his own. He remembers emotions; happiness, sadness, fear. His body remembers how to walk, how to eat, how to fight. He has lived a life, of that much he is certain.

-

            Robin is nineteen when he is born.

            He awakens to a girl’s voice. “Chrom! We have to do something!”

            “What do you propose we do?” Another voice. Deeper, calmer.

            “I don’t know! Just –”

            Robin opens his eyes.

            Two people are looking down at him – the girl, in twintails and gold robes, and the other, a young man with dark hair and a confident, reassuring smile.

            “I see you’re awake now,” he says.

            The girl leans close. Her eyes are a lesson in color theory. “Hey there!”

            “There are better places to sleep than on the ground, you know.” Chrom reaches down. “Here, give me your hand.”

            Robin’s hand follows his brain, sluggishly, but the instant it’s up Chrom clasps it and his energy is infectious. As he’s pulled to his feet, his eyes stick on the back of his hand – some sort of tattoo, an alien symbol in bright purple. For his part, Chrom pays it no mind.

-

            Robin tells himself he remembers what it was like to care for people deeply, but nothing in his clouded past could possibly have compared to this.

            After narrow escapes and triumphant victories, after hero’s welcomes and village festivals and days of lazing around on the fields of Ylisse, the Shepherds become his family. Chrom, Emmeryn and Lissa are his siblings, Frederick is his uncle, Sully and Vaike and Stahl and Sumia are his cousins.

            New names, new faces. New campaigns, new strategies; days and nights of maps, maps, maps, and his family only grows. The threat of the Risen, the rising war with Plegia to the south. He must be ready – he must protect them all. They trust him. They _love_ him.

            He can do this. If he’s clever enough. All he has to do is win.

-

            Robin _loses._

            He’s been separated from Chrom, dueling mages with Tharja on his heels. She’s a bit gloomy, maybe, but powerful, and if they can keep this up, maybe they can regroup with the others in time. He can salvage this.

            Then, _Aversa_ blindsides him out of left field and her spell takes effect before he can counter it. The world fills with acrid smoke, the smell of blood and ozone clogging his nostrils. He chokes, hears Tharja hissing behind him and to his left.

            The smoke parts, arcing away from Tharja’s outstretched hands. Robin steadies himself and grips his tome, Elfire leaping between his fingertips. Aversa darts out of the way, a black blur.

            And that’s when he sees Emmeryn fall.

-

            Losing the battle doesn’t hurt. Losing a sister _does._

The pain doesn’t stop. It doesn’t stop when Chrom runs Gangrel through, it doesn’t stop when Robin cries his eyes out in his tent afterward, and he knows it won’t stop for the rest of his life.

            Emmeryn was noble, kind, and wise. She didn’t deserve this. She’d gone to her death willingly, and her sacrifice had turned Plegia against their king – tactically, a sound play, but Robin can’t reconcile it. It _had_ to have been needless. There must have been some way to save her, if only he’d been able to see it.

            Robin remembers what it’s like to lose someone. If he doesn’t learn to tolerate this, he won’t be able to focus. He _must_ focus, he _must_ win, to protect Chrom and Lissa, just as Emmeryn once privately asked him to.

            He opens a treatise on the use of fireships and swears to never lose again.


	3. Invisible

The Shepherds mourn. Even in victory, they remain stricken by the loss of their Exalt.

            Tharja cannot share their grief. She watches from afar, scanning the downcast faces, the tears they hide poorly (or not at all). This is love. Perhaps worship. There is something she can learn here.

            In moments where she is honest with herself, Tharja admits she was moved by Emmeryn’s words. There are few who would not find something to admire in her noble countenance in the face of death, her calm assurance in the cause of peace. The world she described is so impossible it’s almost asinine, yes…and yet the people of Plegia threw down their arms as if she were their own blood.

            Tharja would have liked to speak with her. To pick that virtuous brain, someone from a world so different than the cynical backwater she knows.

After all, Emmeryn believed that, at their core, people want to be _good._

From the looks of him, Chrom believes it, too. He opens his arms to any who cross their path, walks among his people unguarded and vulnerable. He is the picture of a servant-king, every bit the do-gooder his sister was and twice as naïve.

            Robin disagrees, chiding him constantly to be less trusting. He’s a man of learning, a tactician who studies the human race at its worst. And yet, even he must have hope. Because when Chrom returns that he trusted _Robin,_ Robin has no answer, looking sheepishly at his boots.

            Interesting.

            Does Chrom sense the delicious, murderous aura that clings to his friend? Has he deciphered the dragonmark on his right hand? Or is this blind idealism; is there some circumstance under which they first met that explains this away?

            She gradually comes to suspect the latter.

            Perched on the roots of an alder tree, Tharja watches them have this conversation at least twice. Her fingers wander up and down the spine of her tome, clutching it to her chest. She’s deep in her thoughts, staring at the back of Robin’s head, when a massive shadow looms over her.

            Ah.

            Frederick the Wary earns his name a hundredfold. As a guardian and butler, he is revoltingly dutiful. As a warrior, he is fierce and vigilant.

            As a watchdog, he is a pest.

            “Tharja.” Once again she is reminded how _giant_ he is. He must be seven feet tall, and three hundred stone with it. “Mind sharing what you’re up to so far from the rest of camp?”

            Tharja resists the urge to turn tail and run. Instead, she glowers up at him. “Nothing that would merit your intervention.”

            Standing over her like this, he practically blots out the sun. More importantly, he’s blocking her view of Robin.

            Frederick spares a moment to scrutinize her, ostensibly looking for potential threats. His gaze is an intrusion. Tharja slumps, struck by the impulse to make herself smaller.

            “If you have no business with the Exalt,” he says haltingly. “I must ask you to find another spot for…whatever it is you’re doing. In fact, I don’t believe I saw you at lunch today.” His eyes narrow. “Or at Frederick’s Fanatical Fitness Hour.”

            Tharja opens her mouth, then closes it. She _was_ in attendance at the bizarre, hormonal ritual he’s referring to, but only to observe (specifically, to observe Robin). Revealing that information may not be wise.

            “I prefer to eat alone,” she says. “And I want no part in bodybuilding.”

             Frederick’s reply is lost in the wind as she gets to her feet and marches around the tree, toward the rest of camp.

            An irritating mishmash of noise and smells floods her senses. The Shepherds are not a subtle group, and unlike in Plegia, where she was expected to keep to herself, they stick their noses in _everything._ Tharja gives the campfires a wide berth and retreats to her tent.

            She will have to find a different approach to deal with Frederick. A hex? Giving him a cold might be entertaining. Or maybe hallucinations. And she could always just turn him into a toad.

            No. Too obvious. Besides, anything that would compromise his faculties would be tantamount to sabotage. Tharja likes being alive, and that means the Shepherds need to be at full strength. Not to mention it would make trouble for Robin.

            She decides to make herself invisible.

            It’s not a difficult spell, but if done right, neither is it easy. There are _nuances_ to account for; light refraction, shadows, footprints; masking her breath, her scent, her magical signature. She’s not fond of using it, and hasn’t practiced in a while, so she spends another sleepless night preparing it.

            The next morning, only the flap of her tent betrays her movements.

            Tharja crosses the camp quickly, enjoying the freedom to take any route she pleases. She resists the temptation to curdle Cordelia’s pudding or loosen the straps of Virion’s quiver. Her alder tree awaits.

            Unperturbed, she watches Robin read three books and eat an apple. He takes a nap, turns over twelve times in his sleep. There’s the most adorably troubled scowl on his face. It makes her want to wrap her arms around him and –

            Chrom breezes through the tent, a mug of soup in one hand. He lays a quilt over Robin, the look in his eyes disgustingly fond, and leaves as silently as he can.

            Shortly after lunch, Lissa creeps up and pinches Robin’s nose closed. Tharja suppresses a snarl, but before her instincts take her any farther, Robin bolts awake, yelling about Risen and wolves. The two of them bicker, but it’s clear (as usual) that Robin will never quite put his foot down with her pranks.

            The young Princess is…complicated. Lissa has a healthy sense of mischief, something Tharja can admire, and a great deal of talent for healing. With proper instruction, her influence over life and death could be staggering. On the other hand, she is also childish and tactless. Does she have nothing better to occupy her time than badgering Robin so?

             And yet, as he shoos her away, Robin’s face has the same fond look as Chrom’s.

             Speaking of Chrom, here he is _again_ , this time having reacquired Frederick. Tharja smiles to herself. Let him keep watch. He can’t evict what he can’t see.

             Frederick assumes his futile mission while Chrom and Robin talk. They move from subjects of little importance to grand strategy, to the alliance with Ferox to the north. Robin brings up Lissa and Chrom chuckles. They’ve had this conversation before, but this time, Tharja’s curious what he’ll say.

            Just as she leans in to catch the next word or two, Frederick crosses in front of her. Frustration simmers in her belly. Can he not keep watch from two feet to the left? But she must keep still; he’s too close to adjust her position.

            Tharja’s leg begins to cramp. She looks down at it, without tilting her head, and wills her protesting muscles to calm.

            When she looks up, Frederick is staring straight into her eyes. Her breath catches in her throat.

            There’s no way he can see her. She sits, motionless, watching him carefully for any sign of realization.

            Frederick’s expression is grim, but perplexed. He unlimbers his lance and, slowly, carefully, prods the trunk of the alder tree.

           The tip of the lance passes within a hairsbreadth of Tharja’s midriff. She can’t help but flinch.

            With a huff, Frederick withdraws his lance and, one eye on the tree, approaches Robin and Chrom. “My Lord, there may be enemies in the area. I must insist you take shelter while I hunt them out.”

            “What do you mean?” Robin asks. “Risen? Bandits?”

            Frederick runs a hand through his brown hair. “I do not know, but I have reason to believe they have concealed themselves with magic.”

            As Chrom refuses to leave, Tharja curses inwardly. She’s been so careful! How does he know so much, without even finding her yet?

            Well, at the very least, _she’s_ not a suspect at the moment. The paranoid fool can hunt phantoms all night, but he’ll never find the true culprit.

            Frederick exits the tent, followed by Robin and Chrom, hands on their swords. In a moment of panic, she realizes they’re making a beeline for her tree.

            Time to go.

            Tharja slips away as they reach the spot, hemming and hawing and feeling around in the dim light. They look ridiculous, but not as ridiculous as she feels.

            Ducking back into her tent, she ends the spell, pausing to kick her notes into the corner. Invisibility isn’t going to work.

            But Robin is hardly ever far from Chrom, and Chrom rarely escapes Frederick. She will need to compensate, find some way to continue her vigil undetected.

            She mulls it over, staring at the tarp until the dinner bell rings. Unfortunately, the only solution she can conjure is blending in.

            Which, of course, means she must socialize.


	4. Inconspicuous

            There are upsides and downsides to socializing.

            Tharja is forced to make do with when Robin is in or passing through the main camp. She can’t be too obvious, for fear of sticking out among those going about their business, although she can tail him much more closely when Frederick isn’t around. She’s also privy to a lot of useless information that she could otherwise happily ignore.

            Like the fact that Gaius, the former mercenary, has a sweet tooth. Or that Sully, the cavalier, does not return Virion’s feelings.

            She hopes to never come off as pathetic as that foppish archer.

            Tharja watches Stahl stuffing his face and Maribelle scolding him. Why does she _bother?_

            She watches Kellam try to break into countless conversations and feels what might be sympathy, if she could comprehend his need to be included.

 His hopeless panning is almost as embarrassing as Vaike fishing for compliments, calling himself “Teach” as if such a blunt-instrument meathead could conceal mysterious, invaluable wisdom.

            Ricken trails after Miriel in his comically large hat, trying to convince her of something related to his magical experiments. _There_ is a pair to contend with. He may be young, but he has considerable potential, and behind her spectacles, Miriel’s calculating eyes speak to her vast experience.

            Sometimes, Tharja catches Miriel studying her, as if deciding how best to approach her. She never makes a move. Even so, Tharja makes a point to avoid her – doubtless the court mage will be full of prying questions about dark magic, and that’s the last conversation she wants to have right now.

            Lon’qu, the Feroxi Myrmidon, has also been watching her like a hawk, but he seems to want to get as far away from her as possible. Tharja doesn’t know whether to feel offended or vindicated (maybe she really _is_ just that unpleasant) but she soon discovers it extends to all women. The man is terrified of them. He even _throws_ a sack of herbs across the barracks at Panne, in an attempt to return it.

-

            Panne is a curiosity, one Tharja is attempted to devote precious time away from Robin to pursue. She’s never met a taguel, and their transformations are said to not only be formidable, but a rare sight for outsiders.

            She corners Panne one night and inquires upon her place of origin.

            “To the West, in a land not claimed by man.” Panne’s voice is a deep purr that makes Tharja’s spine shiver. “Or at least, not until my people were slaughtered and the mountains daubed with their blood.”

            “I see…” Tharja says. “Then there are few others like you?”

            “Odd.” The taguel’s head lilts to one side. “Most man-spawn would offer some kind of apology.”

            “Should I have?” Tharja grips her spellbook. “I didn’t realize you held me responsible.”

            Panne smirks. “On the contrary. It’s most common for your kind to assume guilt of your own volition. Bringing up the extermination of my race makes things…awkward.”

            “Yes, I imagine it would.” Tharja is at a loss. She has nothing in common with racial identity, or for that matter, with national pride. Both Panne and ‘man-spawn’ are foreign to her.

            She cuts to the chase. “Do you think I could have some of your hair?”

            There’s a moment of stunned silence.

            Then, Panne laughs. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you? I like that.” She reaches up – the back of her hand is covered in silky fur – and plucks a few strands of hair from her head. “How about a trade? You can have my hair, and in return, let me listen to your heartbeat.”

            Reaching out to receive the hair, Tharja recoils. “I’d rather not. Keep it.”

            “Don’t fret,” says Panne. “I won’t have to get close to you.” She closes her eyes in concentration. Her rabbit’s ears twitch.

            Tharja, now holding the hank of hair in one hand, feels naked. She draws her tome closer to her chest.

            Panne smiles knowingly. “There, it’s slowed.” She opens her eyes. They’re a hypnotic silver-grey. “At first I thought you had an unusually fast heartbeat, but then I realized it just quickens when Robin is near.”

            Tharja’s eyes go wide. She takes another step back and stumbles. “I – how did you – that’s not –”

            Once again, Panne simply chuckles. “Do not worry. I will keep it to myself.” She winks. “Robin is kind. You need not fear approaching him.”

            With that, she leaves Tharja standing dumbfounded on the edge of camp.

            Logic dictates that she has made a friend.

-

            After Panne throws her off balance, Tharja decides to vet her interactions.

            Gregor, the hired veteran with poor Ylissean, is harmless, if irritating. No need to take further action unless he wastes her time.

            At first glance, Nowi appears to be a young girl, but when Tharja beholds her up close she knows her for what she truly is. A manakete is the last enemy she wants to make, and this one acts like a temperamental child. Definitely an undesirable.

            Libra, the monk, is a non-starter. He has a habit of turning up where he shouldn’t, and always greets her amicably, but his principles clash with Tharja’s trade. She has no time for religious moralism.

-

            While passing the stables, Tharja hears a colossal crash, followed by a muffled wail of despair.

            “Again, Sumia?” A tired voice. It takes her a moment to place it – Cordelia.

            She frowns. Sweet, smart, glamorous Cordelia. As if it weren’t enough for every woman in the realm to envy her looks, her fighting prowess is just as breathtaking. A fury on the back of a pegasus. 

            “I-I’m sorry!” Sumia sputters. “Let me pick that up!” Such a dear girl. Clumsy, yet so nauseatingly well-intentioned. Just the sort to capture the heart of an unsuspecting tactician.

            Cordelia’s smile is audible. “You were thinking about Chrom again, weren’t you?”

            “Well…” Sumia trails off, and it’s then that Tharja realizes she and Chrom are in love.

            The two knights keep talking, about romance and marriage and who knows what. Tharja’s head spins. First in celebration – of _course_ Sumia would fall for Chrom; what was she even worried about? – but then in confusion. There’s something else in Cordelia’s voice, some veiled bitterness.

            It’s a bitterness Tharja is all too familiar with.

            Could _she_ harbor feelings for Chrom as well as Sumia?

            Without drawing any premature conclusions, Tharja tentatively deems the pegasus riders safe.

-

            Anna, the merchant, appears to only be interested in profit, though she strikes Tharja as the promiscuous type. One to keep an eye on, at least. Trusting merchants is often a mistake.

            Olivia, the dancer, is the one that makes Tharja feel the most inadequate. Graceful, stunning, and shy as a morning dove. Her easy blush only enhances her beauty, and her confidence shines through when she performs – not a foot out of place, every twirl more captivating then the last. Tharja never learned to dance, and she supposes Olivia might die of fright if, in a moment of fancy, she asked for lessons. Luckily, she is no temptress, so her threat is mostly to Tharja’s self-esteem.

            _Dancing._ How dreadfully charming.


	5. Behind and to the Left

            Robin remembers something.

            He’s practicing his swordsmanship, with the patient help of Lon’qu, and once again the Feroxi warrior knocks him to the ground.

            For whatever reason, this time – maybe it’s the way he lands – there’s a blinding flash, and in his mind’s eye, Robin is someplace else.

            _A dark room with no visible walls or ceiling. The air is thick and foreboding, a distant roar buzzing in his ears. His sword is on the ground, his hand throbbing._

_Standing over him is a tall, red-skinned man, a forked beard jutting from his chin. Below his hairline, two curved horns spring upward. He wears fine robes, holding a jagged Levin sword casually in his right hand. His fingers are very long._

_“On your feet,” the devilish man growls. “You waste my time with your ineptitude.”_

            “Robin?”

            Robin blinks, and it’s Lon’qu standing over him instead, sword awkwardly at his side and brow furrowed.

            “I’m alright,” he says. His tongue feels heavy.

            “Are you sure?” Lon’qu holds out his hand. “You went completely still for longer than seemed natural.”

            Robin takes it, lets Lon’qu pull him up. “I…had a flashback. I think.” He picks up his sword, turns it over in his fingers.

            Lon’qu sheathes his own blade and crosses his arms. “You are certain this was a memory?”

            That’s the thing; _nothing_ is certain. Robin sighs. “It could easily be a hallucination, in this heat. Or a dream. Maybe I fell asleep for a second.” He definitely _feels_ tired. It’s been hard to get decent rest, lately.

            “I was more worried that the witch had cursed you.” Lon’qu motions to a gap in the trees.

            There’s not a lot of people he can be referring to, but Robin turns to look all the same, and finds himself staring Tharja straight in the eyes.

            After a pregnant pause, Tharja seems to realize he’s looking at her and bolts to her feet, almost dropping her spellbook. She shifts her weight like a frightened deer, then walks lackadaisically into the underbrush, as if that had been her plan all along.

            “Okay, that’s a little strange.” Robin eyes Lon’qu askance. “How long ago did you notice her sitting there?”

            “Shortly after we began.” Lon’qu rests his hand on the hilt of his sword. “It does not bode well. I wouldn’t let her get too close.”

            Robin shakes his head, smiling. “She’s a woman, Lon’qu. Not a wolf. You ought to relax.” He taps his chin, collecting his thoughts. “Besides, she’s watched my back in battle faithfully. I’ve no reason to believe she’d curse me.”

            “I wonder,” Lon’qu says grimly. “If she watches your back more often than you think.”

            _That_ gives Robin pause.

            It’s entirely possible Tharja was just sitting there, that his sudden staring looked rude and made her uncomfortable. This isn’t a private practice field, and she _was_ holding her spellbook – she’s never without it – so she could have been going over formulas or whatever it is dark mages do. Lon’qu would be cautious of _any_ woman, what with his past. It’s perfectly rational that Tharja would arouse suspicion in him.

            And yet…

            What he said was true. In the final battles against Plegia and every skirmish since on the road back to Ylisstol, Tharja has fought at his side. Specifically, behind him and to his left. Coincidence? Unlikely.   

            Robin shrugs. “Well, I’ll find out one way or another. Thanks for the tip.”

            Satisfied, Lon’qu nods. “Naturally. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak with Panne.”

            This is a first. Panne’s told Robin about when Lon’qu tried to return some herbs she’d misplaced, while simultaneously doing his level best to avoid coming near her. For him to seek her company of his own volition (or that of any woman) is notable, to say the least.

            Lon’qu must notice the arch in Robin’s eyebrows, because he stiffens slightly. “She has provided me with an herbal tea. To settle my sleep.”

            Robin grins. “Is it that foul stuff she’s always drinking? I could never bring myself to try it.”

            “It serves its purpose.” Lon’qu shuffles his feet. He’s hiding something. “I would highly recommend it.”

            “I’ll take your word for it,” Robin says. “Panne’s a saint to share it, though.”

            “Indeed.” Lon’qu meets his eyes. “You are close with her. Is she often so…”

            “Generous?”

            “Forward.”

            “Ah.” Robin chuckles. “Yes. She’s not one to mince words. Gave me quite the shock at first, when I tried to offer my condolences. It grows on you, though.”

            “Then,” Lon’qu begins with a frown. “That is, may I inquire as to your – intentions –?”

            Oh.

            “With Panne?” Biting back more laughter, Robin claps Lon’qu on the shoulder. “She’s a friend. Nothing more.”

            Lon’qu nods. “That is…good to hear.” He sets his face and turns on his heels. “My thanks, Robin.”

            “Naturally.”

            Robin watches him leave, grinning from ear to ear. _Someone’s_ learning to face his fears.

            He’s so preoccupied that he forgets to check behind him as he heads for his tent.


	6. A Soul By Fear Assailed

            Tharja confronts Lon’qu the next evening.

            Or, she intends to, but as she approaches him by a campfire, _he_ greets _her_. If it can be called a greeting.

            “Tonight, we’re holding a war council. Don’t be late.”

            This requires a change of plans. Tharja drums on the spine of her tome. “Is Lissa hosting again? Maybe she’ll make more of those little honey cakes.”

            Lon’qu shrugs, and the shiny carapace of a beetle catches the firelight, perched on his head. A fine specimen. Worth collecting.

            “Hold on,” Tharja says. “You’ve got a bug stuck in your hair.”

            As she reaches out, Lon’qu shrinks back and leaps to his feet, knocking over his stool. “Don’t come any closer!”

            The beetle flies away. Fuming, Tharja withdraws her hand. “Very well. If you find me _that_ repulsive.”

            Bristling, Lon’qu takes another step back. “You are not special. I feel the same way about all women.”

            “Yes, yes, I know. That makes it all better.” Tharja pinches the bridge of her nose. “I wonder if someone cursed you to fear women.”

            “I think not.” Lon’qu’s mouth is a thin line while he decides what he’s going to say next. “Something at the core of my being has always made me uneasy around your kind.”

            Tharja curls her lip. “Still sounds like a curse to me.” She sighs. “Want me to fix it?”

            Lon’qu blinks. “What?”

            “It must be hard to turn into a gibbering idiot whenever you’re near a woman.” Perhaps if she does him this favor, he’ll relax when she watches Robin train with him.

            “You have the power to rid me of this fear?” The wheels in his brain are still turning, but he looks sorely tempted.

            Got him. Tharja smiles. “Someone’s iiiinterested…”

            “I am not,” Lon’qu says. He’s a flimsy liar.

            “Sure, whatever.” Tharja turns to leave. “When you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

* * *

 

            Robin is having difficulty sleeping.

            Every few minutes or so, after he manages to get comfortable and lie still, he starts awake. Coughs or sighs. Plops back down onto an uncooperative pillow.

            All this, Tharja can tell simply by ear.

            When he doesn’t nap in Chrom’s open pavilion, she’s taken to sitting outside his tent and setting her spellbooks in order. Listening to his breathing calms her, helps her focus.

            Except on nights like these, which are becoming more and more frequent as of late.

            If Tharja could, she would take his darling head into her lap and run her fingers through his hair, until he slept as soundly as could be. But, of course, she can’t.

            She remembers Panne’s words. _Robin is kind. You need not fear approaching him._

Were it so easy.

            Why does she torment herself like this? If she were caught, Robin would have no reason to look upon her with kindness – no one would, except perhaps Panne. To risk so much, to endure so much pain ( _so_ _close,_ and she can’t comfort him) when she’s never _spoken_ with him. Asked him about himself. All she knows, though she knows a great deal, comes from observation and eavesdropping.

            Sometimes she feels ashamed – _she_ , a dark mage, peeking around corners and twisting her skirts like a peasant girl at a village dance. If this got around, she’d be finished. Not to mention the social stigmas surrounding her activities; all sorts of nasty words like _trespassing_ and _spying._

            Should she be going about this differently? How would a _normal_ person handle this?

            Panne would know. Or Cordelia, Sumia’s jilted advisor, so well-versed in matters of the heart. _Anyone_ would know how to handle this better.

            Instead, Robin is stuck with _her._ A solitary malcontent, who can’t even muster the courage to speak to him.

            Tharja shuts her spellbook, resting her head in her free hand.

            She’s not sure how long she stares at her knees.

            Robin sits up suddenly, some half-formed word dying in his throat. His voice, though faint, is filled with a deep loss that tugs at Tharja’s chest.

            But she must make ready, in case he steps out for some air. Her legs grow tense, urging her to flee. Just a _moment_ more, she tells herself.

            False alarm. Robin exhales heavily; relaxing back onto his bedroll.

            Tharja, much more quietly, exhales with him.


	7. To Curse a Shepherd

            Ricken approaches Tharja on her way back to the main camp that morning.

            “Hey, Tharja?” he says, his ridiculously large hat bobbing in the breeze. “You can do dark magic and stuff, right?”

            Tharja is genuinely nonplussed. What could be the origin for such a redundant question? Some social pretext, no doubt. She braces herself. “Yes, I can do dark magic and…stuff.”

            “Well,” Ricken shuffles his feet. “Do you think you could teach me some curses?”

            This is unexpected. Tharja gives him a once-over. “Did someone steal your lunch money?”

            “Oh, jeepers, no!” Ricken shakes his head, very nearly buffeting her with his hat. “I just like learning new skills, is all.”

            “Curses and hexes are no simple matter,” Tharja says through gritted teeth. “But perhaps you do possess the talent.”

            “I’m sure I do!” he beams. “So, will you teach me, then?”

            Tharja turns to walk away. She has places to be, hexes to draft. “No.”

            Ricken rushes after her. “Oh, come on!”

            “Casting hexes is not a hobby to be picked up on a whim,” Tharja says. “There are consequences.” Her own fingertips are beginning to itch and crawl. It’s been too long since she cast something _really_ nasty.

            “I know! This is serious business!’ the junior mage whines. “Super, super serious business! I want to get as stronger so I can be more useful to Chrom’s army. That’s why I’m studying fencing, wyvern riding, and even butter sculpting.” He blushes. “You know, just in case.”

            Tharja rounds on him. He’s vomitously earnest, and she needs to cut off this silly fantasy before he gets burned. “Hexes and curses are a different beast. Wild. Untamable. They will _eat_ you _alive._ ” She reaches out and pulls his hat over his eyes. “Forget this conversation and go back to your butter sculpting.”

            Ricken manages a muffled protest as she marches off, but she’s long gone by the time he fixes his hat.

* * *

 

            Which curse?

            That’s the problem of the thing. The Shepherds aren’t at war any longer, and Risen attacks have been few and far between since they set out for Ylisstol. Tharja has been keeping to largely benign magic, and it’s beginning to tax her reserves.

            As with all dark magicians, she needs her fix. The catharsis that will keep entropy at bay, until the next time she exceeds her limit.

            Leafing through her spellbook, she ponders what will do the trick without compromising battle readiness. She has to be stealthy about it, too, given that she’s still on probation as far as Frederic is concerned.

            She flips past plagues and pestilences, colds and carcinogens, bronchitis and bunions. Something in the middle. It can’t be harmless, but it can’t _do harm._

            Perhaps hypnosis. Nothing major, but enough to order someone around a bit, get some chores done. Efficient, relatively easy, and not in the least bit permanent. Perfect. Now she needs a target.

            It’s during her daily perusal of Robin’s routine that she makes her decision.

            When he’s not training or strategizing, or cooped up in all sorts of clandestine meetings, Robin likes to go walkabout in the camp. He really seems to be friends with _everybody_ , which in some cases is cause for concern.

            Anna, the merchant, is naturally untrustworthy, but Robin is quite content to sit and chat and pore over her stock. He also bears her flirting with a sheepish, awkward grin, sometimes even returning it in jest. It’s adorable – and it makes Tharja’s blood _boil._

Gaius, the sellsword, is about as unsavory a character as Tharja herself. His vice for sweets (and his beastly habit of enjoying them with his mouth open) aside, it seems he can take nothing seriously. More on that, he’s _handsy_ , with Robin at least – slaps on the back that are just a bit too hard, mussing his hair, sporting punches to the arm. Robin bears it with dignity, but Gaius’s eyes are laughing the whole time.

            Surprisingly, before Tharja can commit to cursing either of them, someone else grabs her attention.

* * *

 

            Sully is practicing with her lance, straw and burlap flying as she disembowels a padded fence post. She’s a vision, red-haired and muscular, her rough, knife-edged features only enhancing her natural beauty. For a brief moment, Tharja is transfixed.

            And then, _Virion_ shows up.

            “Ah, most fortuitous fortune! It is my dearly beloved Sully!” He crosses the field, his flowing locks tangling in the wind. “Such grace and skill! It positively–”

            Sully leans on her lance, wiping sweat off her forehead. “You got a point, Ruffles?”

            She sounds as impatient as Tharja feels. Exiled or not, Virion still assumes the behavior of a nobleman from Valm, and to the down-to-earth Ylisseans, it just wastes time.

            “None save the point of my heart’s compass,” Virion answers with a sweeping bow, “Which strains ever towards fair Sully.”

            “That sounds like a no,” Sully sighs. “So, get lost. I’m trying to train here.”

            Virion recoils in mock horror. “So cold! I feel a chill coming on.” He smiles winningly. “I’ll surely catch my death if you don’t spare me a few words, my lady.”

            “All right, fine!” says Sully with a huff. “What do you want?”

            “Come now,” Virion chides, stepping closer. “All this training for war, this angry grunting…it’s unbecoming of a lady so beauteous!”

            Sully looks unfazed. “A pretty girl can stab a guy as easily as an ugly one, but she still needs to practice.” She hefts her lance. “So clear out!”

            Virion laughs. “Surely the poets would write of your prowess in combat! But there is no need for such exertions, when you’ve a man willing to protect you.”

            With that, Sully finally bristles a little. Tharja finds herself leaning closer, waiting on the moment she finally snaps. “I’ve yet to meet a man up to the task.”

            “Milady, you wound me,” Virion says. “Such a man stands before you!”

            There’s a pause.

            “…Wait, are you talking about you?” Sully throws her head back with a huge belly laugh. “Are you out of your mind? Oh, you’re funny, I’ll give you that,” she smirks. “But, Ruffles, I’d hire a wet nurse _and_ her kid for protection before I’d consider you.”

            For a moment, Tharja sees the defeat on Virion’s face and thinks he might take rejection gracefully. But then he rallies, reviving his smarmy grin. “So it’s proof my lady desires? Very well! I will gladly furnish such. Simply watch me in our next battle, and I vow to leave no doubt in your mind.” He affects another bow, and takes his leave.

            Sully shakes her head. “Geez. This should be good.” She takes a deep breath and returns to her practice.

            Tharja’s eyes follow her as before, but her thoughts are elsewhere. She knows how it feels to receive unwanted advances – and to be looked down upon for her sex. Sully has no need of Virion’s _protection_ (or, it seems, for his particular brand of romance).

            She looks down at her grocery list – the tasks and ingredients she’s been preparing for over the past few days.

            Perhaps Sully would benefit if Virion were…distracted, for a time.

            Two birds with one stone.


	8. To Waste a Witch's Time

            Tharja waylays Virion on his way into camp the next morning.

            Crouched in a trio of bushes, she murmurs the incantation and lets the curse leave her fingertips. For his part, Virion freezes in his tracks.

            Wonderful. Now to ensure it took full effect.

            Her stiff knees protest as she stands up (she had to lie in wait for his entire morning routine, which involves a lot of hair care). Virion doesn’t react when she walks out onto the path, even once she’s only a few feet away from him.

            Tharja catches his eyes. He returns her gaze blankly.

            She wiggles her fingers. “Tit for tat, become a cat.”

            Virion screws up his face and _meows._

            That was fast.

            “ _Sleep,_ ” she says forcefully.

            Virion gingerly lays down in the dirt. His eyes drift closed and he begins snoring.

            This guy’s a walking curse magnet. She’s never seen anything like it.

            “You are…so beautiful…” Virion mumbles in his sleep. “Please….marry me….”

            “That’s quite enough of that.” Tharja snaps her fingers. “Wake up.”

            Virion bolts upright, “Wha - ? Where am I?” but doesn’t seem to notice her. “Oh, alas. It was but a vivid dream. ‘Tis a shame, really; she was about to say yes…”

            Tharja clears her throat.

            “Ah! Tharja, yes?” Virion rises, dusting himself off. “How may I be of service this fine day?”

            “Well,” she grins. “Since you asked…”

* * *

 

            Putting Virion through his paces is more complicated than Tharja would have expected.

            She has him fetching items on her supply list for the better part of the day, but that soon becomes rather monotonous. Not to mention, some of the materials she needs simply aren’t available in the surrounding area. So, she tells him to clean the barracks.

            There’s something about seeing a nobleman scrubbing on his knees that’s uniquely satisfying.

            However, Virion’s done tidying up quicker than she thought. So, she sends him to the kitchens. Watching him learn to beat eggs should be good for a laugh.

            No such luck. Virion rolls up his sleeves and blends right in. The kitchen staff gives him a few odd looks at first, his beatific smile wards off any interrogation. Instead, he proves an able chef and expediates the meal preparations for the evening.

            And yes, it’s _evening_ by now.

            This presents just a bit of a problem. Tharja isn’t having any trouble controlling him, and he’s not having any difficulty with her orders. If there isn’t that element of control and resistance, the curse has no payout. If the curse has no payout, she’s back to square one, heading even _further_ into withdrawal.

            Ah, her fingers _itch!_

As soon as he’s out of the kitchen, she takes him aside and stares at him.

            “I’m running out of things for you to do,” she says aloud.

            Virion inclines his head gallantly. “I shall do anything you ask.”

            He…isn’t supposed to do that.

            Tharja blinks. “Did you say something?”

            “Indeed,” he says.

            “Have you been awake this whole time?”

            Virion smiles. “I have, milady.”

            “That’s impossible.” Tharja scowls. “The victim of a curse enters into a trance state, with no memory of their actions!”

            “A curse?” He clicks his tongue. “You should have told me that was what you were doing. Those little hex doodads never work on me.”

            Tharja almost drops her spellbook. Does he have magic resistance? If so, where did he get it, and how? And why has he been so compliant? “You’ve been following my orders without hesitation!” She flexes her fingers. “Are you playing me for a fool?”

            “Not at all.” Virion shrugs. “I simply find it impossible to refuse a beautiful woman.”

            Now, _that_ is simply uncalled for.

            Tharja’s lip curls. “What if I told you to, I don’t know…pluck out your own eye?”

            Virion doesn’t falter. “Then I could wear a fine diamond eye patch.”

            “Liar.” Tharja turns on her heel. She wants to run back to her tent and scratch her fingers raw.

            “I never tell a falsehood to a lady,” Virion insists, almost _gently_. “Even in jest. In time, you will see that I am sincere.”

            “I doubt it,” says Tharja, and leaves him standing outside the kitchen.

            Good riddance to all pests.

            She’s trudging though one of the camp’s central lanes, fire pits quenched down to glowing embers, when she sees a flash of grey hair up ahead.

* * *

 

            “Robin!”

            Robin turns to see Cordelia jogging up to him as he’s on his way to dinner. The Pegasus knight is out of breath, but smiling.

            He smiles back. “Hello, Cordelia. I haven’t seen you all day.”

            “That’s because I was crafting a new javelin, based on your feedback from the other day.” She holds the long weapon out in front of her. “Tell me what you think.”

            Robin does a double take. “You _made_ one? As in, you forged it yourself?” Cordelia is a woman of many talents, but he’s never counted smithing among them.

            “No, I…cut a sapling, fashioned a grip, and _then_ hammered the point in the forge.” She taps her chin thoughtfully. “I suppose I could have waited around for the javelin fairy, but she’s _so_ unpredictable.”

            Snorting, Robin reaches out and accepts the javelin. Perhaps he isn’t the most able judge, but the workmanship is of exceptional quality, and it feels well balanced.

            Cordelia, who’s been watching him intently, leans in. “Here, look. See the pattern on the shaft? That’s my own design.”

            There are indeed a series of grooves twined around the grip. They certainly look nice, but it isn’t like Cordelia to go into that much trouble purely for aesthetic.

Robin mimes throwing the javelin, only to find the grooves roll off his hand smoothly and easily. It’s almost impossible to fumble, even for a novice like himself.

            “Well?” Cordelia presses. “What do you think?”

            “As a weapon, it’s fantastic,” says Robin. “But I wasn’t expecting you to go and fashion a whole new javelin from scratch!” He shook his head in wonder. “You really _are_ a genius.”

            She flinches. “Beg pardon?”

            Ah. He’s misspoken again. Trust an amnesiac to call her by an old nickname and open an old wound.

            “Right. Sorry, I know you’re sensitive about that word. I take it back.” Robin smiles sheepishly and hands her the javelin. “Anyway, glad I could help. If there’s anything else I can do…”

            “Oh, Robin,” says Cordelia warmly. “You’re too kind. If I…” Her face reddens, almost matching her hair. “No, wait. We can’t be doing this. People will get the wrong idea!”

            Robin has to admit that she’s cute, and now he’s blushing too. “Doing what? What wrong idea?”

            Cordelia leans on the javelin. “If you’re so nice to me all the time, people will start to think…we’re friends.”

            “Oh,” says Robin. “I thought you were going to say something else. But, well, what’s so bad about that? We are friends, aren’t we?”

            “You think so? Truly?” Her face lights up. “I’m sorry, I’m – well, I’m not used to this. I was the youngest recruit in my regiment. All the others were veterans. I…couldn’t really call many of them friends.”

            Robin nods. He already knows how mercilessly she was teased. “That can’t have been easy.”

            “I grew accustomed to it,” Cordelia says evenly. “And, of course, I had my Pegasus to talk to. Even if the conversation was a bit one-sided.”

            “Yes,” Robin chuckles. “I guess it would be.”

            The dinner bell rings, high and clear, through the camp.

            “Do you want to go and eat?” he asks.

            Cordelia opens her mouth to reply, but her eyes drift over his shoulder and narrow sharply. “Get behind me!”

            Robin stumbles as she yanks on his elbow, swinging him onto the other side of the path. With one hand on her javelin, she steps in front of him, shielding him with her body. There’s a tense moment as she stares into the trees, her earnest face now a mask of war.

            Despite the adrenaline pounding in his chest, Robin senses no threat. Maybe it’s just that Cordelia makes him feel safe. But then again, nothing’s happening.

            “What is it?” he asks in a low voice.

            After a beat, Cordelia relaxes. “I’m sure I saw someone watching us. I’m not sure who, but they got out of here fast as soon as I spotted them.”

            “Hm,” says Robin. “That’s rather disconcerting.”

            “ _Disconcerting?_ ” she rounds on him, one eyebrow raised. “Chrom wouldn’t like you being so devil-may-care, I think.”

            “I was in no danger.” He grins. “After all, you were here to protect me.”

            “What are friends for?” Cordelia fires back, but her eyes are still on the trees. “Come on, let’s go eat.

* * *

 

            Tharja’s blood _boils._

            It’s quite likely that Cordelia may have feelings for Chrom, that’s true. But she doesn’t have to stand so _close._ She doesn’t have to look so sweet and vulnerable, when the topic turns to her oh-so-tragic past. She doesn’t have to make Robin go so…so _soft._

Unfortunately, Cordelia is woman and warrior in equal measure – and her sharply honed instincts are more than enough to catch wise. Tharja isn’t concealing herself with any spells, and the moment she risks everything for a closer look, her cover is blown.

            Cordelia manhandles Robin with next to no effort, stepping in front of him protectively. Awfully familiar of her. In fact, it’s not too far off from how Robin was hanging on Chrom, when first Tharja saw him in Plegia.

            In a way, her ferocity is just as intoxicating, but it’s fleeting, replaced by something Tharja is much better prepared for.

            Jealousy.

            While she was wasting her time with _Virion,_ trying to stretch the limits of a curse that didn’t even take, Robin was here getting cozy with the Shepherds’ queen bee, and from the looks of it, he’s rather enjoying the attention – even if it _is_ purely platonic. So far.

            Her fingers itch no longer. Instead, they buzz and pulse with an intense heat that, were it manifest, would surely melt her flesh and carbonize her bones. With a start, she realizes she’s trembling; not just from rage, but because she’s now fully into second-stage withdrawal.

            If she doesn’t cast a potent enough curse soon, she’s going to die.

            Tharja’s eyes settle on Cordelia, walking practically hand in hand to dinner with Robin.

            Maybe she can budget this out. Tide herself over, and crawl back to her tent to plan a few absolute whoppers. In any case, the time for restraint is long since past.

            Tharja fishes a stick of charcoal out of her skirts and pulls a scrap of parchment out of the linen binding her chest. She scratches out a quick-and-dirty sigil, crumples it up, and sends a 5-day runny nose curse straight at Cordelia’s perfect little head.

            It might not do much, but it feels good. Cordelia lets loose a riotous sneeze, and the tremors in Tharja’s body ebb. Just a little. And for now, that’s enough.

            Back to the tent, where Diallo’s tome lies waiting – packed with all manner of horrors for her to unleash.

            She skips dinner that night.


	9. Curses, Curses, Alchemy

_For Virion –_ Vanity-Breaker. Take that self-esteem out at the knees. Should penetrate that pesky resistance, since it’s not sustained and I’m running hot right now. Mirror only.

            _For Frederick –_ Button Eyes. Keep him out of my business. Needle and two black buttons, red thread, cloth.

            _For Gaius –_ Tepid Tastebuds. All those disgusting slobbery candies will taste as bitter as escarole. Candy and a big leafy bunch of endives.

            _For Ricken –_ Catapult Curse. Everything he tries to pick up will go flying out of his hands. Pebbles, ribbon, lint.

            _For Miriel –_ Hypertension Field. Next time she pries into my territory, she’ll get a mental repulse of headaches. Ash, candlewax, sulfur.

            _For Libra._ Numbtongue. He’ll uncontrollably flub his words during daily prayers. Saliva, target’s hair, dandelion seeds.

            _For Gregor –_ Spirits Nix. To amend his drunkenness, turn any alcohol he touches to water. Ale, coal dust, red pepper, fresh water from a brook or stream.

            _For Vaike –_ Bee Humble. Whenever that “Teach” nonsense gets going, he’ll feel like a bee has stung him. Black ribbon, finishing nails, target’s hair.

            _For Olivia –_ Grease. Dancing will be tough on a slippery surface, especially if that’s every surface. Butter and a bit of pork rind.

            _For Anna –_ Coinsbane. Any cash she handles will fall through her hands. Coins or gold leaf, oil.

            _For Chrom –_ Passwall. Doors and tent flaps will refuse to open for him. Wood fiber, cloth, matches, armoranth.

            _For Lon’qu –_ Mislead. Female silhouettes will crop up suddenly in his peripheral vision. Clay, ash.

            _For Cordelia –_ The Taint. Let her feel my envy. Green candle, rotted mushrooms, dead plants, fabric, needle, black thread, mirror.


	10. Perfection in Pain

            Tharja can’t help but hesitate as she looks over her list.

            Has she gone overboard? On the other hand, perhaps it’s not enough. Thirteen curses _should_ do, all of them tailor-made, most of them with personal motivation. None of them cause lasting bodily harm. What they really are is inconveniences; some more _complex_ than others, but no more or less malignant.

            In truth, she doesn’t really feel any doubts until she gets to Cordelia’s.

            She wrote up The Taint in her fit of sleep-deprived jealousy the other night, and honestly, she was most likely cranky from hunger as well. Her notes are careful to specify watering it down, but still – is it really _necessary?_

One part of Tharja wants to commit. She’d be a laughingstock back in Plegia if she backed off now, and anyway, it’s not like Cordelia doesn’t _deserve_ it.

            And yet…

            What could Tharja’s Taint accomplish that Cordelia must not be feeling already?

            She’s fixing to cast her Passwall on _Chrom,_ actually, when she overhears the two of them arguing in the storehouse.

            “Chrom, just set it down and I’ll take care of it!” Chrom _._ Not ‘milord’. Cordelia’s discipline has evaporated in the face of frustration.

            “That’s easy for you to say,” Chrom retorts, a slight strain in his voice as if holding something heavy. “You’d never do the same if I told you to!” He sighs. “Getting you to rest for once was hard enough. Sit still and _I’ll_ carry it.”

            There’s a short silence, so tense that Tharja wonders if it will _snap –_ and if so, how badly. She can see Chrom’s side (Robin overworks himself just as much as Cordelia) but he’s coming off far too condescending. Cordelia will feel flustered, cheapened, challenged – and her self-absolution is desperately important right now.

            After all, she’s not good enough for him. She can’t be _Sumia._

            There’s a muffled _thump_ as Chrom sets down whatever he’s been holding. “…I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

            “Yes,” Cordelia says, her voice tight. “It _was_. I don’t think you understand how much I have to work to clean up after this army. I spend practically every waking hour worrying about y–” She cuts off, then tries to finish strong. “About everyone!”

            “Cordelia.” Chrom’s slipping into his Exalt Voice. “I know how hard you work, and everyone is thankful for what you do. But you’re not the only one with responsibilities to the Shepherds – or to Ylisse.” There’s a rustle of clothing and he inhales sharply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get rid of this crate.”

            Tharja makes herself scarce as he leaves the storehouse with a stormy expression, brows knit together, mouth pressed to a frowny line. He’s _pouting._ It’s so unusual for him to show this side that she forgets her curse entirely.

            Once he’s gone, she creeps back towards the doorway, only to scramble for the shadows again as Cordelia stomps out and sits down hard on the steps, fists in her hair.

            “Now I’ve gone and done it, haven’t I?” she mutters. “He won’t even _look_ at me for a week. You should have counted your blessings and bit your tongue, fool girl.” With a heavy sigh, she stands up, wipes her eyes, and heads in the opposite direction Chrom went.

            Right past Tharja’s hiding spot.

            Tharja’s eyes track her, gripping her spellbook in anticipation. The incantation rises to her lips, ready to inflict the Taint.

            She can’t do it.

            Instead, she opens her mouth to speak words of sympathy, perhaps even comfort, but then she realizes that would be admitting to eavesdropping.

            Tharja says nothing. Instead, she scratches out her plans for the Taint. She keeps the rest of the list. After all, her life depends on it.

            Only time will tell if there is a price for sparing Cordelia this kindness.

* * *

 

            Tharja is either exceedingly lucky, or she’s been due some good karmic energy for her mercy.

            There’s an attack. Risen in the night, and then bandits at dawn, hoping the Shepherds will be softened up by the shambling dead.

            Tharja pockets her list with _relish_ and gets to work. _Here,_ she need not restrain herself. Here, she can be wild and free, owing no pity and giving no quarter. Her waxing power torrents from her body, warping time and space, and she _laughs_ , full to bursting with ruin’s cruel joy.

            And, first in all things, _here_ she can be close to Robin.

            To him, their battlefield partnership is likely a de facto cobbling of skills – their magics complement one another, and they’ve become familiar with one another’s fighting habits after their work in Plegia. Yet, though she knows it’s silly, Tharja cherishes each conspiratorial glance, each protective intuition, reveling in the unbridled _intimacy_ of it all.

            Robin wears violence so _well._ His aura is rich, cold and heavy and _reeking_ power that never fails to captivate. He bears his wounds with defiance, meets his foes word for word, eye for eye, blood for blood. His sword flashes, quick and hungry. His spells cut the air, ozone on his breath and lightning behind his teeth. His words are rare, but offer praise and encouragement, always with a confident smile or a feral side-eye.

            It’s _pathetic_ how much she needs the attention.

            Today, of all days, is a dangerous cocktail. Tharja is running hot, magic blistering her veins, and her pent-up withdrawal is crying for destruction. Beyond that, there are emotional issues she’d like to work through – her fickle nerves, her indecision, her abject _confusion_ – as well as the fatigue and hunger she’s imposed on herself. Add that to Robin’s bloody, determined smile and she’s thoroughly drunk.

            She wants to plaster herself to him like armor, like a shield. She wants to linger on his sleeve as she pulls him out of danger, to hold him close like a lover. She wants to kiss him, grind against him under their robes, murmur promise after promise into the hollow of his neck.

            She wants, she wants, she _wants._

And right now, as Nosferatu saps the magic from a Risen’s limbs and feeds her, sating her belly and easing her aching joints and running her energies back up to full tap…she feels no shame at her indecency.

            A dangerous cocktail, indeed.

            The Risen have been killed or driven off with the dawn. Now, _humans_ come howling from the bushes. Blackguards and cutpurses, looking for an easy take from weakened soldiers. Unfortunately, the Shepherds’ reflexes are _sharpened_ now, not frayed.

            “Ready?” Robin asks, that sweet voice ringing out over the din. There’s soot on his cheeks and his hair is standing on end, his robes rumpled and torn. His slender fingers are stained with blood, wrapped around his glistening sword.

            “ _Mhmm,_ ” Tharja answers, pleased to think she must look much the same. “Knock ‘em dead.”

            That wins a wry smirk, and her heart _sings._

             Together, they call up fire and flux, sending a tempest to ravage the onslaught of bandits. It batters and singes them, wounding their morale as deeply as anything else. Once Chrom and Frederick wade in, Sumia and Cordelia swooping down to aid them, it’s all over.

            “Now, _that’s_ strategy,” Robin says, wiping his sword on his coat. “We’re in top form today.”

            Tharja giggles. “And this is before I even sharpen my nails.”

            Robin turns to her with a grin. “You seem to be in a good mood.”

            Having his _undivided_ attention like that, out of combat, throws her off. “Oh, I – I really couldn’t say.” Her eyes drop to the ground. Blast it, why can’t she speak? She’s never been _demure_ in her life.

            To her surprise, Robin is watching her rather carefully. “I’ve actually got a question, if now’s not a bad time. Have you–”

            “Robin!” Chrom calls from downfield. “There are some here who wish to surrender. By your leave?”

            Robin stirs and calls back over his shoulder. “On my way!” He offers Tharja a weary smile. “Er, sorry. Duty calls. I’ll see you around camp?”

            Before she can hazard an answer, he’s prowling to the captured bandits, coat billowing behind him in the wind.

* * *

 

            He seemed so _tired._

            Tharja can relate, but now that she’s stolen some vitality she won’t need to catch up on sleep for a while yet. She’s free to keep busy however she chooses, as awake as if she’d gone to bed on time like a good girl for the past month.

            Robin, however, isn’t privy to such perks, being that he hasn’t strayed to the dark. It’s an odd thing, now that she thinks about it: someone with an aura as malevolent as his, someone with a _dragonmark,_ should be _oozing_ maleficium. Even if he hasn’t learned _yet_ , one would think a man of his curiosity would pursue those arts wherever available.

            In any case, his magic meddles with primal forces, not _people._ He can’t drink energy from ley lines or siphon from his foes. Robin’s body, while beautiful, is no fortress. He is a man, and men weaken if they do not take care of themselves.

            It’s been too long since Tharja focused her efforts on him and him alone. That and, after today, she’s feeling bold.

            She breaks open her stash of essential oils and drafts him a blend. Something relaxing, to calm his mind and muscles, and perhaps a hint of… _sensuality_ to it, to pique his interest. Robin enjoys complicated things, so this scent will be complicated. And it will be _hers._

Let’s see. Sandalwood, with some Clary sage and wild orange. The former two she’d collected with Virion’s help. As for the third, she could easily secure an orange from the granary wagons and press what she needed from the peel.

            Excitement grips her – more so than devising curses – with the thought of preparing her gift. She wants Robin to feel her personal attention in this gesture, even if he doesn’t know it for what it is at first. And the thought of him puzzling, pondering, investigating, wondering how to interpret or place it, makes her _giddy._

             She leaves her tent on slightly shaky legs, eager to begin her work.


	11. Quintessence of Dust

            Sunlight smudges the space between trees as Tharja rises early.

            Stepping as lightly as she can manage, she makes her way through the camp, over dewy, flattened grass and damp soil. The night-fires are gone, leaving freshly doused coals to scrape the clouds with smoke. Few people, if any, are up and about. Some of the perimeter guards and scouts are changing shifts, but they don’t linger. All this is to be expected.

            However, what Tharja sees upon reaching the granary wagons is _un_ expected, and brings her up short.

            Chrom, Exalt of Ylisse, Shepherd of his People, is squatting on a barrel in his bedclothes and struggling to peel an orange.

            For a moment, all she can do is stare dumbfounded. His fingers are covered in pulp, but he hasn’t managed to break the rind much yet, or indeed remove enough to contemplate eating the fruit. Instead, he seems to be systematically shredding it with his nails, which are well-kept, but far too stubby for this kind of work. The flesh of the orange remains hidden behind fibers, looking thoroughly unappetizing to a picky, princely palate.

            Tharja watches him work, that spoiled pout of his deepening into a scowl. There’s nothing terribly _regal_ about him now – not in his dress, nor his posture, nor the task that baffles him. Perhaps his scowl could be called a kingly one, but such an expression certainly doesn’t make a man. Yet this is someone Robin respects, even _loves._ And Robin is not alone.

            With a resigned, frustrated noise, Chrom abandons his efforts and brings the orange to his mouth, preparing to bite into it, peel and all.

            “Oh, no you don’t!” Tharja blurts out, and before she knows it, she’s striding toward him.

            Chrom’s head whips around.

            “That’s disgusting,” she says. “Give it here. I just sharpened my nails.”

            “You – you what?” he stammers, even as his hand automatically offers the orange.

            Tharja takes it and sets to work. It’s hardly easy with all the damage he’s caused, but she can save most of it, at least. The peel is in no condition to be of any use to her, so she lets it fall to the ground. She’ll take a fresh one for herself, maybe enjoy it slice by slice in her tent while she gets the oil ready. Between that thought and working with her hands a little, she can feel a good mood coming on.

            “Here, try eating that.” When he reaches for it, she yanks it back. “And next time, prince, you might think to bring a knife.”

            Chrom laughs, exasperated and sheepish all at once. “I just might.” He looks down at himself and awkwardly takes a seat on the barrel, adjusting his long legs and looking as stately as he can. “Thank you, Tharja.”

            She lets the orange drop into his hand. “Oh, so you _do_ know my name.”

            Rather than eat the orange, which she was assuming was the point of all this, Chrom looks puzzled. “Of course I do. Robin introduced us properly back in Plegia.”

            Tharja blinks. Now that he mentions it, she’s been in her head for so long they’ve rarely spoken, but they did exchange names when they first met. Not that she didn’t already know his, buggering famous _prince_ and all that. “Right, well. I had…a lot on my mind at the time.”

            He chuckles. “That doesn’t surprise me. He did always say there was more to you than meets the eye.”

            Her heart quickens as she realizes he’s still talking about Robin. “He…talks about me, does he?”

            “Often, when we’re planning. Magic is pretty important to his strategies, so your usefulness in battle is noted.” He takes a bite of the orange. “Sorry if that sounds a little cold. When he’s thinking tactics, Robin can be…”

            “Maddeningly objective,” Tharja agrees before he can finish.

             “Precisely.”

            It feels odd sharing a moment like this, when his knowledge comes from intimacy and hers from mere observation. She reaches for her spellbook, suddenly self-conscious, but her hands are empty. In compromise, she crosses her arms in front of her chest. It’s a small comfort.

            “I must have sidetracked you,” the Exalt continues. “What were you here for?”

            Ah, yes. “An orange,” she says, and spies an open crate of the things. “I need to press the peel.” Plucking one from the top layer, she turns it over, finding no blemishes to the naked eye. It will do.

            “Would that be for a spell?” Chrom separates another slice. “I am ignorance itself in these matters, I’m afraid.”

            Tharja smiles. “Of a sort.”

            “Keep your secrets, then,” he smiles back.

_Really,_ this whole servant-king routine shouldn’t work so well. Even half-dressed with sticky fingers and his mouth full, he’s lordly and charming and sincere all at once. This must be what _they_ see – Cordelia and Sumia and _Robin_ and all the others.

            “Believe me, I will,” she says, judging her tone to be sufficiently ominous. “Farewell, prince.”

            “Farewell,” Chrom returns, muffled by half an orange.

-

            Getting the right blend takes some work.

            First, once back in her tent, Tharja digs out her ceramic crock, setting it on a small square of coals she’d pilfered from the fire pits long ago. Dropping in the best selection of Clary sage and sandalwood, along with the orange peel, she uncorks a skin of olive oil and pours until it covers them all.

            Draping a cheesecloth over the crock to keep out bugs, she lets the mixture sit.

            After losing herself in her tomes, she’s halfway through hashing out a hex recipe when she realizes she’s skipped lunch. Not only that, but dinner is fast approaching.

            She really _should_ stop skipping meals. Someone could notice.

            The dinner bell hasn’t yet rung, but many of the Shepherds gather around the campfires early. Part of this, Tharja has surmised, is because they simply have nothing _better_ to do than socialize, being this close to mealtime. The other part is that they are often served first.

            The logs, stumps, rocks, and occasional canvas stools arranged shapelessly around the flames are already somewhat populated. Tharja sees Cordelia sitting with Sumia, as usual, but they’ve been joined – somewhat perplexingly – by ever-prim Maribelle. Kellam, Stahl, and Vaike are chatting up Gaius off to the side. Miriel and Ricken talk with Libra.

            The Shepherds don’t so much have _cliques_ as they do social bridges. While one fighter may not have a direct relationship with another, they still interact via mutual acquaintances, and those interactions inevitably grow into something more. Tharja can see clearly that Vaike is the bridge for Gaius to cross lines and talk to Kellam and Stahl. He and Gaius are more similar, but Vaike is already associated with the two knights, and so he can bring the sellsword with him and eventually it will be as if Gaius was always there to begin with.

            She wonders – if she allowed it, could she experience the same effect?

            As she tries to find a place to sit, a familiar voice catches her ears.

            “…but if it means no more nightmares, I’d drink a barrel and ask for more.” Lon’qu is sitting across from Panne, speaking in hushed tones. Or, as much as he can while keeping his customary distance. Though he’s notably closer than usual.

            Panne says nothing, merely inclining her head.

            Lon’qu edges forward slightly. “Tell me, Panne. Why do you help me? I know you’ve little love for humans.”

            “Well,” she says. “I’d already given you the herbs. I didn’t want them to go to waste.”

            “Why did you collect them in the first place? Were they for you?”

            Panne sets her jaw, almost unnoticeably. “I often dream of the night man-spawn razed my village and murdered my kin.” Her face, where someone else’s might contort with grief, barely flickers, but her eyes are downcast. “Just before she died, my mother told me that I mustn’t hate all humans. She said there were good men as well as wicked, and to never forget it.”

            Brow furrowed, Lon’qu speaks slowly. “But why did you make the potion for me?”

            “I told you. I didn’t want the herbs to go to waste.”

            There is a long silence, made longer because Tharja feels frozen, conscious of her own eavesdropping and the weight of their conversation.

            The dinner bell rings.

            Then Lon’qu’s face calms, pensive. “You have a good heart.”

            Panne looks away. “You know nothing about me.”

            Yet, even with the sunset and the firelight playing on her cheeks, it’s easy to see the taguel’s blush.

            Tharja moves away silently, pondering.

            In her thoughts, she neglects to keep tabs on Robin’s arrival, and so he appears unbidden behind her.

            “Hello, Tharja,” he says, as if it were the most normal thing in the world for him to just _say hello_ to her. Which, she supposes it is. But he doesn’t have to do it like…like _that._

“Oh,” she says. “Robin.” And before she can find her tongue any further, he’s brushed past her with an easy smile, to exchange words with Virion.

            With a heavy sigh, she forgets about finding food and instead sets about finding a spot to watch from afar. With all the commotion, no one should notice if she indulges herself by, say…staring. A little.

            “HEEEEEEY, THARJA! Whatcha up to, sister?”

            Immediately, Tharja is yanked out of her pleasant mood. Who is this? Why are they accosting her? She is no one’s sister, and she has no wish to be affiliated with someone so loud.

            It’s _Vaike,_ of course, with his stupid spiky hair and his ridiculous arm bracelets and that giant axe he absolutely must lug around everywhere. He’s broken off from Gaius and the others – gods know why – and is approaching her with friendliness and confidence only borne of stupidity.

            “Nothing you’d be concerned with, or understand,” Tharja says dismissively.

            “Hah!” Vaike grins. “That’s where you’re wrong.” He plants his foot on the log she was about to sit down on. “When a creepy mage is following a friend around, Teach MAKES it his concern!”

            Tharja pinches the bridge of her nose. Once again with _this_ nonsense. Best to be direct. “I’m not going to hurt Robin,” she intones patiently. “I just find him fascinating. You, on the other hand…” She wiggles her fingers ambiguously, which is usually enough to send those wary of curses packing.

            “Hey,” Vaike says, oblivious. “That Robin’s a handsome lad, and no denyin’.” He looks across the fire, where Robin hasn’t noticed he’s being talked about. “Soft, silky hair…strong, bulging–”

            Tharja snorts. “Gods, you men are all the same. Completely obsessed with appearances.” She draws herself up. “ _My_ attraction to Robin is on a higher plane. It’s a meeting of the minds.”

            That, and his appearance _is_ more than satisfactory as an added bonus. But apparently, Vaike is already in agreement with her on that, so no need to bring it up. Besides, she’s trying to assert her intellectual superiority.

            “Well, maybe you and me could meet minds!” Vaike winks. “Folks say The Vaike is pretty spiritual.”

            So _that’s_ what this is. A _pass._ Wonderful. Tharja’s had people flirt with her before, though she’s rarely had the fortune to attract anyone who’s been any good at it. More often they fall into the same category as ‘The Vaike’. That, or they were well spoken, implicitly untrustworthy. None were successful.

            She curls her lip. “You’d need to _have_ a mind before I could consider meeting it.”

            He winces. “Aw, c’mon! Gimme a chance! I’m all about meetin’ stuff!”

            “I’d have a better chance at scintillating conversation with a donkey,” Tharja says icily. “Now go away, before I decide to stab you.”

            With that, she saves him the opportunity to disobey and removes herself, heading now for food. If she can’t observe Robin unperturbed, she might as well take her meal back to her tent.

-

            Dinner consists of wolfing down her food while looking boredly over her notes from earlier. Her eyes jump around. She’s read these before. It hasn’t been long enough that they’re fresh to her, ripe for inspiration to strike. Instead, she skips around, looking for something new. Of course, there’s nothing new. She only wrote these just today.

            She wonders what would have happened if she’d sat down with Lon’qu and Panne.

            The oils will need at least a day to settle. Sleeping will make it come faster.


	12. Jewel of Enigma

            Tharja blinks awake, for no particular reason, some time before dawn.

            Thinking it useless to attempt falling back asleep, she sits up on her bedding and rubs the lethargy from her eyelids. The darkness hanging around her in the pocket-space of her tent has a strangely vulnerable bent, one she would rather not focus on. It makes her yearn for something uncertain.

            She takes the cheesecloth from her crock and wafts the contents, lips curling in a contented smile when she takes in the scent. The oil is ready. Rooting through her kit for an empty phial, she fills it with the stuff and caps it off, setting it aside carefully, and flops back onto her pillow.

            It’s absurd this early in the morning, but she feels like _giggling._ Victory is so sweet, one would think she’d never made someone a gift, unbidden, with her own hands before. Which, to be fair, it’s hard to say she has.

            The sun rises outside, creeping in through the flaps. Electing to rise with it, she wiggles false energy into her fingers and toes and gets to her feet, wrapping the phial in parchment with directions scrawled inside. Thus armed, she ventures forth once more.

            Robin leaves his tent in search of breakfast late into the morning, and Tharja, watching from a copse of trees, sees her chance.

            She’s making ready to leave her package just inside the flap when she nearly collides with someone coming from around the opposite side of the tent.

            “Oh, heavens!” squeaks a familiar voice, and the figure backpedals furiously, tripping over a tent peg and tumbling to the ground at her feet.

            “Hello, Sumia,” Tharja intones, doing her best to sound nonplussed.

            Sumia stands up shakily. “I’m so sorry, Tharja! I didn’t even see you!”

            “Why are you apologizing?” asks Tharja, bemused. “You’re the one that fell down.”

            “I’m okay,” Sumia reassures her. “I do that all the time. Did you have something to return to Robin, too?”

            How kind of her to lead the question. “Something like that.” Tharja nods to something Sumia has clutched in her hands. “And yourself?”

            “Just his copy of _Ribald Tales of the Fifth War,_ ” Sumia says, running her hand over the spine of the book fondly. “It’s my favorite, and I was due for a reread anyway, so he was kind enough to lend it.”

            “ _What_ tales of the – never mind.” Tharja is torn between snobbish derision and perverse fascination. “I simply…didn’t take you for a purveyor of erotica.” Or _Robin,_ for that matter.

            “Well, it’s not all just the _ribald_ tales,” Sumia says quickly. “There’s a complete dramatized history, all of it very well researched. And the romance is about more than just, well, you know.” She blushes.

            “Indeed.” If it’s good enough for Sumia to defend it, and for Robin to read and lend, Tharja simply can’t resist. “Do you mind if I borrow it? Before you give it back.”

            Sumia bites her lip. “Well…normally, I’d feel odd about lending someone else’s book. But I know you and Robin are battle buddies, so he wouldn’t mind. And…” A sheepish grin spreads across her face. “I’ve _really_ wanted someone to talk to about it. I love this book! And there’s Robin, but he’s always so busy, and I can’t convince Cordy to read it.”

            “Cordelia?”

            “Sorry, yes. Er, don’t tell her I called her that in front of you.”

            “Don’t worry,” Tharja says, almost wincing at the thought of attempting to talk to Cordelia after all she’s overheard.

            Sumia smiles brightly. “Well, here you go!” Her voice drops. “You might want to read this in private. Just to be safe. And, well, the other reason I can’t talk to Robin as much is, there are some things that should just…stay between women, you know?”

            Tharja takes the book. Well, now she _has_ to read it. “Oh, I understand what you mean,” she says, unsure if that’s the right thing to say.

            Her blush deepening, Sumia shuffles her feet. “Alright, well, you must think I’m some kind of…of _deviant_ or something. I’m just going to go now.” Her eyes dart from side to side, searching for escape.

            Something about _Sumia_ looking so anxious feels wrong. Tharja opens her mouth. “Nonsense. Even _I_ can appreciate good literature.” She pats the book. “I’ll…let you know what I think.”

            Sumia’s eyes widen, and then she _beams._ “Wonderful! I can’t wait to hear it.” She gives a sudden start. “Oh, crudmuffins! I’m supposed to meet Chrom today! I’m just all over the place. I’ll see you later, Tharja!” And with that, she’s gone.

            It’s a miracle she doesn’t trip again, that girl’s so in her own head. It’s _adorable._ Chrom is well and truly doomed.

            Tharja slips the phial between the tent flaps and makes her exit, historical-war-drama-smut in hand.

-

            To say Robin is frazzled today is an understatement, to say the least.

            First, Lissa offered a shoulder rub, which he accepted in good faith, only to find that she had a toad cupped in her hands. _Again._

            Then, Sully challenged Vaike to a pushup contest at breakfast, which resulted in them _breaking a table._

            Someone knocked over a weapons rack in the armory and Maribelle got a nasty cut on her leg, and while she insisted (with characteristic noblesse and dignity) that it was only superficial, she still needed to be rushed to a healer. Not to mention the weapons all over the floor needed to be collected up and reinventoried.

            Then, at lunch, as he was helping to prepare food, his first batch of carrot stew went _horribly, horribly_ wrong, and Panne was the only one who could resist spitting out her first mouthful.

            Now seeking a moment to himself, he pulls back the flap to his tent only to find a parcel on the floor inside.

            Unwrapping it reveals a phial of clear liquid; he can’t tell what color because of the glass, which is tinted deep brown. The inner part of the wrapping reads, in unfamiliar handwriting: _Rub gently into temples and back of the neck to relax the body and mind._

Now, _this_ – this is odd. The phial had to have appeared after he left for breakfast, so this happened today. It’s not addressed to him, but his insomnia is somewhat well-known, and it’s unlikely that someone mistook his tent for another Shepherd’s. Who, then, could have left this, and why? What _is_ it?

            This calls for an expert opinion.

            Robin finds Stahl where he can nearly always be found – in the kitchen pavilions, making sure none of the leftovers go to waste. The messy-haired knight looks up, his mouth full, when he approaches.

            “Robin!” Stahl waves him over. “What can I do you for?”

            “A small favor, I hope.” Robin sits down across from him. “You learned the apothecary’s trade from your father right? Can you tell me what this is, and if it’s poisoned?” He slides the phial across the table.

            Stahl picks it up and squints at it. “I’ve got a hunch already, ‘cause I’ve seen this kind of container before. But I’ll break out the kit to be safe.” He withdraws a small length of brown cord from a pouch on his belt, and uncaps the phial. “Alright, I’m going to have to unscrew this. There’s a ballpoint in the neck, here. See? So, this is for topical use. My bet is, this is your typical essential oil.”

            Robin nods as Stahl unscrews the ballpoint and dips the cord into the phial.

            “If this cord turns white, that’s a clue there’s some kind of toxin. We should know in a second or two.” Stahl raises his eyebrow. “So, where’d you find this?”

            “At my tent,” Robin says. “It was wrapped up, with written instructions to use it on my skin, like you said.”

            “Well, essential oils can have a number of benefits,” Stahl said. “But that’s still a little weird, not knowing who it’s from.” He pulled out the cord, still the same shade of brown. “Welp, no poison that I can detect. I don’t see why an assassin would leave so much extra in the phial when there’d be no point if the first application didn’t kill you anyhow.”

            Robin watches him reassemble the phial and takes it back. “Thanks, Stahl. I feel better about this now.”

            Stahl grins. “No problem. Do you have any idea what it’s supposed to do?”

            “I’m pretty sure it’s just to help you relax,” Robin says, scratching his head. “Both the body and the mind, that sort of thing.”

            “Huh,” Stahl says. “Well, we all need to relax sometimes, I guess.” He shrugs. “Probably, someone wanted to be thoughtful, but they just were too shy or busy to do it in person.”

            Robin raises the phial to his face. “You may be right.”

-

            Tharja has done entirely too many risky, harrowing and downright violent things in her life to get a rush out of reading smut in public.

            As the sky begins to darken and the Shepherds gather for dinner, she sits at a far campfire on a log, leafing through _Ribald Tales of the Fifth War_ with guilty fascination. It is, to put it bluntly, unlike anything she’s ever read before.

            Whether that’s a positive or not, she can’t really say.

            Sumia’s argument, to be fair, did hold water. Apart from the ribald bits, there are gripping battle scenes, tense negotiations, and grand gestures of romance across page after page. It almost makes one forget about the sex scenes, until they suddenly reappear, like getting hit in the face with a frying pan.

            Sure, the author’s artistic liberties carry an idyllic flair for drama, but Tharja is gradually finding herself willing to forgive that. The grittiness of the real history is appealing to her, as well as (horrifyingly) the numerous romantic subplots and carnal dalliances. Perhaps she was in too pleasant of a mood when she began reading to muster a reaction more befitting of a grizzled dark mage.

_“Sigurd, we mustn’t,” Deirdre whispered breathlessly. “Our guests are right outside the door!”_

_Sigurd only smiled, his nimble fingers finding their objective under her skirts. “Then you’ll just have to be quiet, my love.”_

            Tharja is so engrossed in her reading that she tunes out entirely, until she hears a voice rather close behind her.

            “Robin, is that you?”

            “Ah, Maribelle,” Robin answers. “How’s your leg?”

            Maribelle giggles. “As good as new. That darling Libra fixed it up for me. But what’s this? You smell _wonderful!_ I didn’t think you wore perfume.”

            Tharja whips her head around, hiding behind her book, just in time to see Robin laugh nervously and rub the back of his neck.

            “Is it that strong? I must have used too much. It’s just some oil, to help get me ready for sleep.” He smiles. “It was a gift, but I don’t quite know from who.”

            “A secret admirer, perhaps?” Maribelle’s blonde curls shake as she raises a hand to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t mean to make you self-conscious, dear.”

            “Don’t worry,” he laughs again, easier this time. “Maybe I’ll find my mysterious benefactor if I continue being this obvious.”

            Tharja forgets to hold her page in the book.

-

            He was _wearing it._ He went back to his tent and opened it, and _went out to dinner wearing the scent_ the same day. Not only that, but he openly spoke about looking for her.

            Robin is a deliberator. He calculates, thinks carefully. He’d have them all believe he’s a scatterbrained sweetheart, and _oh,_ he is, but he’s so much more. This is a play he’s making. But _what_ play?

            Is he warning her? _I know what you’re trying to do, and I’ll find you?_ Or is he accepting her? _This is okay and appreciated, and I may let myself be enticed further?_ Does he know, or at least suspect, the depth of what she’s trying to convey, somehow? Deprived of further gestures to articulate, be they gifts or otherwise, she can’t be sure of anything.

            She wishes she’d kept some of the oil, if only to daub it on herself. Sleep will not come easily tonight.


End file.
